


Ardent Foolish

by Lady_R



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Ableistic Slurs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullying, Disability, Gen, M/M, Multi, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_R/pseuds/Lady_R
Summary: [Modern!AU: Izalith]Since the death of her mother and older sisters, Quelaag has renounced to dreams and fun of all sorts: it's she that holds her family on her back, even more than her older breadwinner sister, and dedicates all her life to her disabled twin, Quelaan. At least she's happy the way she is, with a loving boyfriend that cares for her from afar – even if Quelaag herself feels no love for the man. At least she's happy, unlike someone else.Since the death of his mother and older sisters, Quelos has forgotten what it's like to feel alright. Relentlessly taunted and failing in class, he sometimes feels as if he has no way out of his ceaseless routine of misery. He wants to be helped – not that anyone would want to get involved with a big, stupid loser such as him. He just has to resist until the year is over, but day after day he feels more and more like falling apart.





	Ardent Foolish

He waits for her where she has left him, curled up in a wooden chair that makes him look even more grotesquely tall. His callous hands, big enough to hold hers twice, grab onto the front pocket of his black hoodie. He stares at the ground.

-Come on.- Quelaag says. -I’m done for today.-

His brother keeps his back bent forward, as if the muscles on his shoulders were heavy on his bones – and he’s huge enough, mark her words, Quelaag would indeed believe it. The dark skin of his knees sticks out from the holes in his sweatpants. They weren’t there last week, she remembers it well. She shakes her head.

-Quelos, hello!-

No answer. He’s probably wearing his headphones under his hood. Quelaag raises her hand in front of his eyes and snaps her fingers. 

Quelos takes his hood off. There they are, his fire red headphones, with tiny plastic horns stuck to the speakers. When he places them around his neck, Quelaag hears the far-off sound of the electric guitars. Her brother’s eyes are red too, and a black bruise, the size of a fist, surrounds the right one.

-You already know?- he mumbles. 

-We’ll speak about it later. Get up. We have to be home before six. Our sister needs to get ready for her dinner.-

Quelos emits a “mm-hm” and pulls himself on his feet as if every gesture caused him physical pain. He pulls his hood back up and averts his gaze from his sister. As he is, Quelaag’s head barely reaches his shoulder. He walks a palm away from her, hands in his pockets, eyes lost in the light blue blaze from the windows. He grits his teeth. Quelaag brushes her fingers on his wrist. 

-Don’t touch me.- Quelos says. He speaks in a low tone, the back of his head towards her. He breathes in, puffing his shoulders. His feet scrape on the tiles. Muddy sneakers, the same of the previous day and the day before. The strings from the one on his right foot are undone, and they whip through the air at every step. 

Quelaag takes one step forward. -Does your eye hurt?-

-No. It never hurts.- 

Yet, his eyes are still red. They step down the stairs side by side, they cross through the courtyard without a word. Quelos’ lips are contracted, his shoulders rise and fall at every breath. Quelaag runs his face again with her eyes: last week’s crust, the one under his lip, has vanished, but the scar on his eyebrow is still scarlet and porous. _And these_ , she thinks with a sigh, _are the visible ones_. A knot ties itself around her stomach, and doesn’t leave when the bus stops squeaking by the sidewalk. 

Her brother curls up in the seat by her side, sticking his knees into his chest. -Can I put my headphones back on?- 

-At home. Now you can talk.-

-I have nothing of interest to say.-

Quelaag holds tightly onto the handle of her bag. It’s true: maybe Quelos’ fight would be interesting, was it not the last in a long series. The boy keeps his thick lips clenched shut, as if his own skin hurt. His nostrils dilatate and tighten at every breath. His eyes stare at his own feet, his crust-covered hands hold onto his knees. 

-Quelos, come on.-

-As usual.- Quelos lowers his head. -They provoke me, and I beat them. It’s always been like this. It’ll always be like this. Leave me.- 

-Do you think it gives me any pleasure? Coming to fetch you whenever you do this? You must ignore them. We’ve told you plenty of times. It’s important for you to finish the year.-

-I’m not going to anyway. I’m too stupid to finish it. That’s what they all say.-

Quelaag sighs, jams her fingers in the leather of the bag. -And don’t you think that not attacking all those who come close would convince them otherwise?-

-What am I supposed to do? Let them tease me?-

-You have to ignore them, I repeat. They do it to make you angry. If you attack them, you play at their game.- 

-Of course.- Quelos spits out. -Maybe, if I was less stupid, I’d control myself. Woe is you. You ended up with an idiot for a brother.- 

 _He does it to provoke me_. Quelaag turns to the road. Traffic surrounds their bus from all sides, like a flock of sheep, the sky is smoke grey with clouds as thick and dense as fresh cement. Quelos takes a can of Monster Energy Chaos, rips the paper wrapping off a straw, cracks the drink open and throws the paper into his backpack. The straw colours itself of a bright orange as the boy sips the content. 

-Stop drinking that junk, Quelos.- 

-It relaxes me.- 

Drinking an energy drink to relax is like drinking frozen yoghurt to keep warm. -You could be sucking on lava, and it’d hurt you less.- 

-I suppose.- Quelos squeezes the straw with his teeth and loudly sucks. -I’m stupid enough to do such a thing.- 

-Stop it. You’re not stupid, but you’re acting stupid.- Quelaag squeezes the boy’s wrist, twice as wide as hers, pulsating of tense muscles. -It’s hard for us all. Each one must do their part.- 

-And I’m not capable. Bad for me.- Quelos rips his arm off her hold and wipes the slime off his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. -Why don’t you all just kick me out? If I’m so obnoxious, you’d be happy not to have me around.-

Quelaag raises her gaze to the top of the bus. Not even Grana can shut him up, when he wants to be petulant. _But we’re but his sisters. Mom would know what to tell him_. She brings her hands to her stomach, where a big knot is wrapped around her insides, and tightens her eyelids. 

-What is it?-

-Nothing. Car sickness.- 

-I’m sorry.- the boy says, atonally. He takes another sip from the gassy muck and turns to the window, away from her. 

-You could try. Make them like you.- 

Quelos blinks, eyes big and humid. -No. I couldn’t. Let’s not talk about it, Quelaag.-

-We must. You’ll get expelled, if you go on like this.- 

Quelos’ eyes widen at these words. Quelaag expects him to choke on the Monster. He instead swallows, and side-eyes her. 

-They started it.- he babbles. Quelaag shakes her head. -But you always finish it. You’re the one who gets punished. Get clever. Don’t let them continue. Act as if they didn’t exist. Start making conversations.-

Quelos stares at her as if she had just said the earth is flat. 

-Talk about what? Am I supposed to go to Kirk or whomever and ask them how’s life? I’m stupid, but not that stupid.-

 _Is he a brother, or a tick stuck to my neck?_ Quelaag clenches her fist, pushing her nails into her palm. Quelos bends the lid of the can forward and backwards. 

-There’s other people out there, you know?-

-Would anything change?- 

-Everything. You wouldn’t be mad at everyone, for starters. Maybe you’d even feel like studying at one point.- 

Quelos squishes the empty can in his palms. Now it’s but an aluminium disc, that vanishes tight in between his big hands. _What would all these blows do to my brother, was he not so big?_ Quelaag takes a deep breath. The boy’s eyes are still red, his thick back is hunched forward. 

-Now, now, we’re home. Don’t think about it.-

-It goes on anyway. It never ceases.- 

The bus squeaks and wails as it steers towards the stop. The grey roofs of their palace confuse themselves with the clouds. It’s probably twilight, but one can’t see it from down there. In their old house there was a balcony the size of a volleyball field, and one could see twilights that filled the whole sky. Quelaan loved them: she wonders what she remembers of the things she’d see back in the day. Quelos swings the string of his hoodie around his finger, contracted lips and averted eyes. _His thoughts are like my own_. She stretches her fingers towards his wrist, again: Quelos pulls his hand back into his pocket. 

-We’ve arrived. Now forget it, alright?- 

-Quelos…-

He raises his backpack, swings it one inch away from her face, pulls it on his back – it’s a big outing backpack, but he looks as tiny as a handbag against his body. There’s a hole in the fabric, and a handful of smaller holes next to his shoulder. Quelaag grabs her own bag and slams it on her back. When she steps down the bus, Quelos has already vanished behind the door.

-Come back here! Let’s talk about it!- 

His steps thunder up the stairs. They have a regular pace: he probably put his headphones back on. Quelaag punches the plaster wall. _There’s not even a lift, in this disgusting building_. It’s not a good place for one person, let alone fine. _Four_ , she repeats herself. _There’s four of us_. She finds their house door open, atop those terrible six ramps of stairs. She slams it shut, she lays upon it. Her brother’s dark, sunken eyes meet hers – the right one a swollen mass in between purple and mud.

-Quelos!-

-What else? What else do you want?- 

The boy unties his second sneaker and kicks it off. The backpack lays against the wall like a sentenced to gunning down. He holds onto his headphones like a dagger. 

-Let’s talk, come on. I won’t hurt you.-

-Good for you. I want to be alone.- 

The door of his bedroom is slammed behind his back, the key clicks in the lock. -Quelos!- Quelaag stomps on the ground, livid, face boiling. 

-Bad for you! Go get in trouble, little boy! What do you think I care? Bad for you!-

She feels like an idiot for what she’s said – _little boy? He’s a damned colossus_ – but it’s too late to get him back now. _Mom, why aren’t you here with me?_ She wants to start crying, but she doesn’t have a bedroom to hide into, and Quelaan would notice, even without seeing. She lets go of the bag and carries herself to the middle of the room, arms open.

-And quit it with the Monster, while you’re at it! You’ll blow up!-

She slumps onto the armchair, blinking. The world is humid, outside of her eyes, and rarely has she felt so tiny and _powerless_. It’s absurd that Quelaan and that mess of a brother are so different from one another. Mom has but adopted them, but nobody would care. She shrinks onto herself at the thought of mom – and Isalia, Ivana, Galana, Quelana. _It was enough to tear us apart. Maybe Quelos acts this way to make me feel the fatigue of still having six siblings_. She rubs her eyes on her sleeve. 

-Quelaan? Grana? I’m back.- 

Grana sits on a stool in the kitchen corner, headphones in her ears. She smiles, lifting her hand in a gesture of salute. Quelaag folds her mouth, barely lifting her fingers. 

-Quelaan?-

-You’re back? Come here, give me a hug!-

Her voice is enough to make her lips feel less limp. She waves at Grana again and runs to the screen behind the sofa. Her sister’s arms, well covered by the green pullover, are stretched towards her, lily pale hands shaking faintly. 

-Dear!-

She’s warm against her, and sweetly sighs into her cardigan. He platinum-blonde hair are tied in two loose plaits, her arms hold onto her as light as a silk shawl. The camera of the baby monitor, linked to Grana’s ever-lit phone, is red. 

-I missed you so.-

Her sister has soft hair, and her pale lips shine of pink gloss. _I’m sick, but not done for_ , she says. Her nails are filed short, covered in silver varnish, They shine against her pale face as she removes strands of hair from her face. 

-I heard a door slam. Was it you?-

Quelaag sighs, sitting next to her twin. -Quelos has had a bad day. Leave him in his funk.- 

Quelaan tenses. -Has he had another fight?-

-Mhm.- Quelaag nods, even if her sister can’t see it. -He was _strangely_ in a bad mood. He’ll drive me crazy. He should learn something from you.- 

Quelaan faintly laughs. -Poor Quelos. He always has one.- 

She holds her smartphone to her chest like a doll. Quelaag squeezes her wrist. _Indeed. Poor Quelos_. 

-I wish I could help him, really. I love him.-

-But, sometimes…- Her sister smiles, she knows her well. 

Quelaag squeezes the blanket in her fingers. -…I want to grab that stupid head of his and slam it on an edge until he regains his senses.- 

Quelaan retreats. -I don’t like these images. He’s our brother.-

-You don’t choose your brother.- 

Quelaag shakes her head. She’s not behaving properly. _He’s already unhappy, and I’m making it worse_. 

-But you do choose boyfriends.- Quelaan raises her phone, brings it to her mouth. -He texted me, listen. Vocal command, read last message.- 

Quelaag raises her gaze towards the scaffolding of her bed. “I love you, you’re beautiful, I’ve been thinking about you all day”: Eingyi isn’t the most original lover out there. But somehow, Quelaan’s eyes are still glowing. 

-Isn’t he the sweetest?- Quelaan holds onto her shoulder and tugs on her sweater. 

-It appears you like him.- she tries. 

-I wish we could go out together.- 

 _Out of all the boys in the world_. Quelaag clenches her fist behind her back. Quelaan isn’t an idiot, and Eingyi didn’t do it on purpose. At least she has someone: her brother is rotting in his dilapidated bedroom, filling his liver with that gassy sludge. Quelaan’s smile leaves no doubt on her thoughts. _I should want my sister’s happiness_. 

-Let’s think about what we can tell him, alright?. Eingyi is a handsome boy, writes her every day, and he’ll be let free from house arrest eventually. She pictures Quelos in his place, big and awkward in his riddled hoodie – and most of all, not as rich. Quelaan adjusts herself on the pillow, holding onto her hands. 

-You wanna help me? You don’t even see boys out there.-

Quelaah smiles again, wrapping her arm around Quelaan’s side. Quelaan is good and strong. She deserves better. We all do. _Especially her, and Quelos_.  

 

~ 

 

The Monster Energy cans are ice cold. They wait as still as soldiers outside of the room, in the compartment that should contain flowers vases. Quelos count fourteen of them, but they go down to thirteen when he takes on. 

-Stop drinking that junk, Quelos.- he repeats, imitating Quelaag’s voice. -Stop staying awake until four, Quelos. Stop picking fights, Quelos.- The drink fizzles invitingly as he tears the lid off. He throws it on the ground, next to his morning shoes. He kicks down a pile of clothes as tall as his knee. _You’re not my mother. We don’t have a mother anymore_. He takes a sip from his can, until his cheeks puff: White Dragon is less sweet than Khaos, and it sticks on his tongue as he sips it down. 

-Stop being this way, Quelos. Just, this way.-

He places the can on his bedside table and slumps onto his bed. He has fifteen minutes to relax before starting his homework. Was it for him, he’d fall asleep until dinner time. His mouth is dry, and another sip of Monster doesn’t make it any less dry. 

A dance of crimson flames shines on the plastic cover of his phone, on a background as black as ink. Quelos strokes them with his finger, to the tip. There could be a chimney, under there. He zips his hoodie up and pulls his hood on his face. _Fifteen minutes, Quelos. Only fifteen_. Something itches on his wrist: a drop of blood slips from an open crust.

-Damn it!- 

He wipes his wrist on his hoodie: it’s dark anyway, it’s not visible, and nobody will mind his casual clothes. What’s the point in possessing nice things, if it’s all torn to shreds in his fights? Last time he wore a blouse, it was at the funeral. They don’t invite him to parties, and even if they did he’d not want to go. Not since Kirk and his men threw him into the swimming pool of the Oolacile Inn, last Halloween. _Why don’t you try to talk_ , Quelaag says. That evening they had covered his mouth: he couldn’t have even if he tried. Even then, it’s as if those fingers kept pressing on his lips, choking every scream and complaint and opinion of his. 

 _So what?_ Kirk always says the same things anyway. He repeats them even now, in the messages that had forgotten to open during the way home. 

-You’re sick. Learn how to get a joke. No wonder nobody likes you. Maybe this is the time they take you away. Nobody would miss you, Ceaseless Discharge.- 

He has to bite on his tongue not to throw his phone on the floor. He curls his knees to his chest, slipping the phone under the pillow. Kirk, always Kirk, nobody insults with his class. Sometimes he wants to bring Quelaag to him and show her what he has to go through every day. Make her hear all the dumb, stupid, retard, freak, have the spitballs reach her skin; and show her the wrapping paper of snacks shoved into his backpack and his pencil case, and the pen scribbles on the pages of his notebooks, and the crumbs poured on his head whenever he has the whim of taking off his hood, and the nice little blog called _Quelos Izalith is a moron_. Kirk probably runs it too, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it belonged to someone else. He’s that unpopular. 

He runs a hand on his face, rubbing at his eyes. It means nothing. Quelos stays Quelos. Those who don’t know him can’t appreciate him. 

As long as there’s something there to appreciate. _Fifteen minutes_ – but his bed is soft, and his libs are tired. The fresh bruise on his shoulder squeals furiously at every gesture from his left arm. It's cold out there – Monster vans were like pure ice on his fingers. Better to cover himself. Quelos slips under the bedsheets and curls up into it, pulling it above his head. It feels nice, in the darkness. He could stay there forever. Like a worm within the ground: one of his favorite songs is about a worm, or rather a boy that acts like a worm. Maybe his name was also Quelos. He has always wanted to embrace him and tell him he understands. I _’m a worm too, but my rings are thicker. You can talk to me_. 

“ _All alone he turns to stone, while holding his breath half to death._ ” He sings in the darkness, barely moving his lips: they taste of salt, and his cheeks burn like lava. _Sleep first, study later_. He too has the right to feel good, once in a while. 

 

_Were you born such a dimwit, or did you become this way?_

Quelos draws circles in his plate with his fork. The meat in his mouth has turned into a saggy, tasteless mush, a string of fat has gotten stuck in his molars. 

_Do you at least know what two plus two is?_

The bread is dry, floury. The water in his glass is tepid. A cold chill sneaks under his skin. He shrinks into his jacket. He could use a nice pizza in the evening, with a horror movie and some cans of Red Bull. If he focuses on something good, maybe his day will slip smooth and untangible. 

_Were you dropped as a toddler?_

Salaman won’t be pleased. He had promised to knock it off with energy drinks. They’re the bane of every sportsperson. But Salaman isn’t there and he doesn’t live in his skin – just like Quelaag doesn’t, and she doesn’t even try to understand. He takes his phone off his hoodie, slips his headphones on his head. _Bodies_ , Drowning Pool, strong enough to muffle every voice and noise. For that day, he’ll be fine. There’s always a day or two of calm whenever he beats up someone. But survival of the fittest isn’t the only one ruling in those four walls. He’ll have to enjoy his moment of peace. 

 _Dimwit_. 

It’s the final year, he has to resist, Quelaag and Grana always tell him. _Mom would want me to finish school_. Quelaag has renounced college for him to succeed. Running away – like Quelana – would be cowardice, not with that awareness tying him to that accursed place.

Mom is no longer, but something still tells him she’d find out anyway. You don’t pull pranks on dead people. Maybe, now that she, Isalia, Ivana and Galana are gone, they’ll finally come to know what he goes through every day. Quelos’ eyes itch, details blur on the now empty plate.

 _You’ve always been a dimwit, and you’ll always be_. 

He stands up, pulling his hood above his headphones, and walks back, eyes low. Something soft bumps on his shoulder, his earphones slip from his ears to the neck.

-Move, you moron.- a voice says. -You’re so dumb.-

Quelos shakes his head. He can’t beat up whoever talks to him, it’s irrational.

 _It’d be easier if they didn’t talk to me this way_. But they have no reason not to, and Quelos has no idea how to give them one. Something reaches his face – slick, shiny, light – and gets stuck between the hood and his ear. Quelos pulls it out. The wrapping paper of a Sneaker bar, curled upon itself. _Ignore them_. He tosses it behind his back, raising the volume in his headphones until the drums pound painfully on his eardrums. _One, nothing wrong with me, two, nothing wrong with me, three._ Something grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him back with the strength of a bull. Quelos tightens his eyes, grabbing at his shaky earphones. He holds himself onto his legs. _Ignore them_. One step, then another. _Let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the floor_. Another clump of wrapping paper flies in front of his eyes and vanished behind the tip of his hood. A strong blow above his buttocks, flat and wide, leaves him breathless. Quelos clenches his teeth, rigid, sniffing. His tailbone pulsates under his flesh. The courtyard’s dark wall blurs behind his eyes. _Push me again. Again. This is the end_. 

Quelos turns the music off. 

-Are you blind, as well as dumb? Can’t you see us?-

Quelos stares at the sky, turning the music back on. A twenty year-old boy shouldn’t be wanting mommy. He blinks his humid eyes. She’d listen to him: she’d sit him down, stroke his shoulders, tell him _he can do it, even him_. Or Galana, too. Don’t let it get to you, Quelos. You’ll be fine.  _Let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the floor_. 

He stares at his hands: he’s quivering. No, Quelaag would never understand. She’s pretty, she has friends, and she always knows what to say. In that moment it’s as if his tongue had gotten stuck to his palate. Quelaag loves him, but a distant love, like a far-off relative you remember by words. _Stupid Quelos, stupid useless loser_. He’d like to sit down, but his back hurts and he doesn’t want to feel worse. Something solid strikes the back of his head. A crumpled up can flies above his head, bounces on the tiles and rolls towards the trees. 

 _What if I shut myself into a bathroom stall until the afternoon?_ _Bodies_ fades away slowly, voices sound from outside the speakers. -…dummy. Hey, you moron! Idiot! Hear us? Quel…-

He’ll eventually have to visit Galana, Isalia, Ivana and mom’s tombs. The atheist cemetery is so far off – it’ll be dark, when she goes home, and darkness makes him sad. He doesn’t feel like sobbing on a cold gravestone. _Stupid Quelos. As if there was anything else to do_. 

The opening riff to _Animal I Have Become_ rises fast and raging from the speakers. Another can – at least he supposes – strikes at the back of his head. He sniffs. He mustn’t be violent. He has to do it for Quelaag – even if Quelaag wouldn’t ever notice, nor would the other two. _Stupid, stupid Quelos_. 

Fingers grab at his hood and rip it off his head alongside the headphones. Quelos tenses, holding onto his pocket so that his phone doesn’t fall out. The screen already is all a crack, it mustn’t get worse. At least he has no hair they can pull. Months ago they were long enough to stroke his back: they would have been pretty, hadn’t Kirk and the others found sticking chewed gums into them and slicing them with scissors until there weren’t two the same length so hilarious. 

-Can you hear me now, or have you also gone deaf?-

Kirk has a deep, yet elegant voice. He doesn’t sound like the bullies one sees in the movies: big, grotesque, unintelligent. _That would be me_. Quelos stretches his back, taking a deep breath. 

-I would like my headphones back, please.- he modulates. 

-I see no headphones, around here.-

Kirk runs a hand through his raven hair, softly cut. He’s a handsome man, despite it all. He wonders what he’d look like, with such hair. _I’m good like this_ , he repeats to himself. _I waste less time under the shower, I don’t waste precious minutes brushing my hair, and they don’t fall in front of my eyes when I trai-_

-Hey!- Kirk snaps his fingers in front of his eyes. Quelos staggers back. -Can you hear me? Eh? Ceaseless Discharge?- 

-Only you find this nickname funny.- 

He’s lying – they’re laughing, and Kirk has ears to hear them. So does he, sadly: he hears laughter behind his back, and he sees the shadows of the five guys behind himself.

 _No fighting_. -Could I pass?-

-Doing what? Nobody wants you here.-

-Go die.-

-You lackwit.- 

He can’t hold back a sniff. Kirk covers his mouth with his hand. -What is it? Runny nose? Discharging about?-

-Discharge, Discharge, Discharge.-

At least, the bullies one sees in the movies give nicknames that make sense. Quelos searches for the door to the school building, but it looks as far away as the mountains on the horizon. A bunch of girls chat in a corner, about ten sophomores in a circle pass a ball to one another.

-I’m busy, let me through.- 

Kirk pushes a finger on his belly. -Gonna cry now, Ceaseless Discharge?-. _Say it again and I’ll wreck your face_ : he has to remind himself many times that he mustn’t. _They heard me cry at one point_. Not even Salaman would be pleased. Salaman loves him, probably, even though he never heard him cry. He even calls him Quelos, as it should be. It’d be amazing if he was the one to wreck Kirk’s face to bits: he’s probably better than him at boxing, and for once he’d not have to fend for himself. 

-Give me back my headphones, please.-  

Kirk smiles. -I’d rather not. Stay back, you’ll snot on my shirt.- 

-We could make him cry for real, what do you think?-

Quelos tightens his shaking fist, stares at his shoes and the white socks sticking out of them. -Cry, cry, cry.- Someone slaps the back of his head, and two hands shake his shoulder. Kirk isn’t holding his headphones now – _great, how do I get them back now?_

-…are you crying? Eh? You’re a big dumb ba…-

It doesn’t hurt physically, yet Quelos begs to pass out. 

 _I’m trapped. I wanna go home. At least give me back my headphones_. He stares at Kirk’s grin, teeth clenched.

-…Discharge, Discharge, Ceaseless Discharge.-

Quelaag wouldn’t approve, but Quelaag can go to hell, and so can Grana and Salaman. His fist springs to Kirk’s mouth, but it’s his open palm that awaits his tense knuckles.

-You do wanna fight? That’s bad.- 

Quelos would want to answer, but the kick reaching his stomach leaves him breathless. 

 


End file.
